Carra: My Autobiography

by Jamie Carragher

  While my team-mates celebrated, my first reaction was to call for Gattuso's sending-off. He'd fouled Gerrard on the edge of the six-yard box and denied a clear goalscoring opportunity. In normal circumstances a dismissal would have been inevitable. My pleas left me open to allegations of unsporting behaviour. Players who try to get their fellow professionals sent off are frowned upon. I had nothing against Gattuso. My quarrel was with the injustice of Milan still having eleven men on the pitch. There's a difference between trying to get a player sent off and pointing out a mistake has been made if an opponent hasn't been given the correct punishment. Gattuso's survival meant, although we equalized, Milan were able to recover from their slump.

  After arguing with the referee, my next row before Xabi Alonso's pen was with Luis Garcia. I must have looked like a man possessed, lashing out at everyone. Benitez always decided who'd take penalties before the game, and Xabi had been given the nod. For whatever reason, Luis grabbed the ball and was ready to assume responsibility.

  'Fuck off Luis, this is Xabi's,' I said.

  I was saving him from himself. Had he taken it and missed, Benitez – and the rest of us – would never have forgiven him.

  Not that Xabi fared better, but before we had time to curse Dida's save from the spot-kick the rebound had been slammed in and we were chasing the goalscorer to the corner flag.

  Milan had been hit with a six-minute tornado. As swiftly as we'd lost control of our destiny, we'd regained it.

  The Italians managed to recover their composure after our torrential pressure, but their three-goal advantage had been washed away. Psychologically, we had the upper hand, but football has a peculiar way of forcing you to reassess your aims depending on how much you have to lose. We felt fearless at the start of the second half because, emotionally, we were already beaten. The pre-match nerves had gone, substituted by the feeling 'Fuck it, let's just go for it and if we go down, we go down fighting'. At 3–3, the earlier anxieties returned. Now it was time for us to put our foot back on the ball, ease ourselves back into a more orthodox pattern and stop piling forward.

  I recognized we had something astonishing on our hands now, and we didn't want to let it slip again.

  Logically, we should have continued to push on in the carefree manner that had led to three goals, but that was too risky for the remaining half an hour. We chose to consolidate our newly discovered sense of equality, conserve what energy we had for the looming prospect of extra-time and wait for another chance to come without forcing the issue.

  In truth, I barely remember any clear opportunities in normal time after Xabi's equalizer. The final whistle was a Godsend when it arrived. We were tiring, Milan had fully recovered from their trauma, and the sooner the penalty shoot-out started the better so far as I was concerned.

  Those additional thirty minutes were the most tense, strenuous and, ultimately, rewarding I've ever spent on a football pitch. At the end of my career, if there's one period of play I believe I'll be remembered for, it was this. We were under constant pressure. During the second period of extra time I stretched to intercept a cross and my leg cramped. Anyone who has suffered cramp will know how painful it is. Even breaking my leg didn't hurt as much. It was brief and it was instantly treatable, but I knew my body was weakening as Milan finished strongly.

  Thirty seconds after the physio sent me back on to the pitch an identical pass was sent into our box and I had no choice but to stretch the same leg to make a decisive tackle on Shevchenko. As I did so, it seemed the whole world was wincing on my behalf, appreciating the physical torment I was enduring. I hadn't thought twice about throwing my body in the way. Whatever grief it was going to cause me for a few seconds was nothing compared to how I'd've felt had I hesitated and watched him score.

  Courage, character, grit, willpower and raw strength – these are the virtues people have instilled into me since I was seven years old. I'd come a long way from the snotty-nosed kid who wanted to come off the pitch early because it was raining. I bet if there's one moment my dad rewinds on the DVD, it's that one. As I deflected away another goalbound Milan shot, I know he must have been prouder than he'd ever been. The strikers can have their winning goals, the goalkeepers their career-defining saves. A series of lunging tackles on the Milan strike force will be my fondest personal memories of a life in football.

  We were hanging on now, assisted by the fact that Djimi Traore had overcome earlier anxieties to give the performance of his life, and also the manager's capacity to think on his feet. Milan's remaining ace was the Brazilian wing-back Serginho, who instantly found gaps on our right flank, where Smicer was playing an increasingly defensive role which was beyond his capabilities. Gerrard was moved into his third position of the game, shifting to right-back to cut off the supply. It's a tactical switch often overlooked, but in the context of the evening it was as important as many others made that night.

  Regardless of our own input, we'd still need a final contribution from the fella upstairs to survive for penalties. Shevchenko headed from six yards only to be denied by a Dudek save which created one of the most enduring images of the evening. The improbable became real. A reflex movement of his wrist prevented a certain winning goal. Maradona spoke about the 'Hand of God' in the 1986 World Cup. As a Pole, Jerzy claimed it was the 'Hand of the Pope' providing divine intervention. Our keeper would dedicate his success to the recently departed John Paul II.

  'That was the moment we knew we'd win the cup,' many fans commented later. I didn't. There was still more work to be done before I'd accept someone up above was wearing a red scarf. One way or another, penalties were going to provide a fittingly theatrical conclusion to the season.

  Dudek is one of football's nice guys. That's fine when you want to go for a pint, but when you're looking for that extra edge which is the difference between winning the European Cup and going home devastated, it's time to offer some guidance on the finer arts of craftiness. Prior to the shoot-out I headed straight for Jerzy and told him to do everything possible to unsettle the Milan penalty takers. Put them off, distract them, mess with their heads. I didn't care what Jerzy did, I just wanted him to make it even more difficult to score.

  'Remember Bruce Grobbelaar in the Rome shoot-out in 1984,' I was saying to my keeper.

  Grobbelaar famously wobbled his legs on the goal-line as if he could barely stand up due to nerves. As the Roma penalty takers stepped forward, his antics seemed to have an impact as they blazed a couple of kicks over the bar and Liverpool won. He became known as 'spaghetti legs' afterwards. Also, my knowledge of the history of football, recalling how such matches had been won in the past, helped us in this situation. Years spent memorizing the contents of Shoot served their purpose, and my competitiveness kept my mind racing about what more could be done to influence the result. If Jerzy could make just one gesture to put off one Milan player, that could win us the Champions League. My conscience was clear. Winning was the only thing.

  While I choreographed Dudek, Benitez was selecting the penalty takers.

  'Do you want to take one?' he asked me.

  'Definitely,' I replied.

  He ignored me. Cisse, Hamann, Riise, Smicer and Gerrard were selected. Even Xabi, who'd been allocated the job in normal time, was overlooked. Benitez also refused to allow Luis Garcia a spot-kick. He was clever with his choices. If he sensed the slightest physical or mental weakness in a player, he wouldn't let him take one. Leaving Gerrard until penalty five was an astute move too. The consequences of winning or losing on his future were still apparent. Had he scored the winning pen, there's no way he'd have wanted that to be his last kick for Liverpool. Had he missed and we'd lost, he would have felt exactly the same way.

  Milan's penalty takers duly faced Jerzy's strange dancing. He kept imitating a starfish, moving across his line. Did it upset the Italians? We'll never know. If it made a slight difference, that was enough to justify it. By the time Smicer stepped up to take our fourth pen, Serginho and Pirlo had alrea
dy missed, while Cisse and Hamann had given us the advantage. We were two pens from winning the European Cup when Vladi struck the sweetest of spot-kicks to Dida's left. This was his last kick for the club, and the emotion showed. He kissed the badge and celebrated.

  I thought he was too premature, but we knew how close we were now. If Andriy Shevchenko missed, it was over. Even if he scored, Steven Gerrard would have the chance to finish them off.

  Shevchenko stepped up and hit one of the tamest pens you'd ever wish to see. Dudek saved.

  What followed was bedlam. Nothing will ever beat the feeling of securing that victory. It was the most pure sense of euphoria imaginable. I ran as fast as I could towards the crowd, not thinking about my direction, or which stand to head for. Incredibly, as I got close enough to see the blissful faces of the fans, the first people I spotted were my brother Paul and cousin Jamie. In a crowd of eighty thousand I picked out two of those closest to me. There's a photograph that seized the moment: I stand hands aloft and my family is clearly in the background.

  The snap of Stevie and me kissing either side of the cup is my favourite. Once we had hold of it, we never wanted to let go. We didn't need to. As five-time winners, tradition declared Liverpool got to keep the trophy. Stevie slept with it that night. I simply wanted to fill it with as much alcohol as possible and take swigs from it.

  But I was also careful not to milk the moment of victory. There's nothing I hate more than seeing the cup winners rub their opponents' noses in it, so part of me felt for the Milan players. Many of them were experienced enough to take the defeat with the dignity I expected. Most already had winners medals, which doesn't lessen the pain but certainly offers some perspective when you're going through the grieving process. No sooner had some of their players been handed losers medals than they dumped them. Our young reserves were delighted, snatching them up before leaving the stadium as precious souvenirs.

  The party shifted from the pitch to the dressing room. There was none of the quiet reflection of the treble season there. The music played, cloudbursts of champagne drenched our shirts, and every VIP in Istanbul wanted to get in to congratulate us. One such guest I ushered in myself. Gérard Houllier and his brother Serge appeared, the former boss beaming with pride at our success. Houllier was later criticized for turning up as he did, but I wanted him there to share the evening. 'Eight or nine of this side were your signings,' I told him, pointing to Dudek, Riise, Smicer, Finnan, Hyypia, Baros, Cisse, Traore and Hamann. He still felt like 'the boss' to me and Stevie. He'd repeat this to journalists later, and be attacked for doing so, but it was true. It was my way of thanking him for his influence on my career. I was indebted to him, and although his time at the club had ended badly, a year on it was only natural I should remind him how grateful I still was for guiding me through some tough times.

  Liverpool prides itself on being a family club, where every contributor to our glory, past and present, is recognized. I didn't just want Houllier partying with us, I'd have liked Roy Evans and Ronnie Moran in there too. If Kenny Dalglish had turned up, as he did when the celebrations moved to Liverpool, better still. And had they been alive, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan and Bill Shankly could have filled a glass and toasted victory with us. That's what this club means to its former players and managers, so for Houllier to be criticized for acknowledging his impact on the likes of me and Stevie was unfair.

  Not everyone shared my opinion. I know Benitez thought it was strange the ex-boss was there, but I didn't see why it should worry him. There was no way the new manager wasn't going to get the credit for our extraordinary win. John Arne Riise wasn't too impressed by Houllier's arrival either. He'd made some critical remarks about the old regime during the course of the season, and Houllier tended to remember such details. Riise had just emerged from the shower when Houllier spotted him.

  'Do me a favour, John. Stop criticizing me in the press, will you?'

  I wish a photographer had snapped Riise's face. There he was, enjoying the pinnacle of his career, and he's getting a dressing down from his old manager. Priceless.

  'I'm going to become manager of Lyon this summer,' Houllier informed me. 'Hopefully we'll meet in next year's tournament.'

  I hoped so too. An emotional return to Anfield would allow The Kop to give him a proper thank you. Perhaps so soon into Benitez's reign, with memories of Houllier's departure still vivid, it wouldn't have been so heartfelt; but if it happened now, I'm sure the healing hands of time would ensure Gérard received the applause he deserves.

  Stage three of the party was in our team hotel.

  'Where's the real Special One?' asked chairman David Moores as he concluded a brief speech eulogizing Benitez's tactical skills.

  Prime Minister Tony Blair sent us a message telling us we'd done the country proud.

  I was too busy to eat or drink. I spent most of the evening blagging as many of my mates into the hotel as possible. 'Yes, they're all with me' was my catchphrase for the evening as every Red in Bootle verified their credentials. One of those who didn't make it was a lad we call 'Cracker', who ended up sacrificing three days of partying for a few minutes on the pitch with the team. He'd run on to the turf pretending he was one of the coaching staff, and posed for photographs with the team and the cup. He got arrested and had to spend the next two nights in a Turkish prison cell, missing the hotel party and the homecoming.

  Cracker wasn't the only friend of mine feeling blue in the aftermath of our success. Switching my mobile phone on gave me an opportunity to relive the fluctuating emotions of the match. At half-time I'd been bombarded with texts from the Evertonians. To say they were taking the piss is putting it mildly. It was a glimpse of what would have been in store for me had the second half followed the same pattern as the first.

  As I scrolled down the phone, the messages became less frequent, and their tone changed. 'JAMMY BASTARDS' was the last one, courtesy of James 'Seddo' Sedden, a bitter Blue I've been friends with since my schooldays, whose hatred of Liverpool has never wavered despite my switch in allegiance. Seddo had called a bookmaker at half-time to check the odds of victory. He was given a price and laughed. 'What, mate? You're actually giving them a chance?' He now says he wishes he'd put a quid on us just so he could have made a couple of grand to ease his grief.

  Another tale I heard was of the Evertonian who needed to get up for work at four a.m. the following morning, so he went to bed at half-time, safe in the knowledge we were beaten. He was awoken at midnight by fireworks going off. 'What the fuck's going on here?' he said, drawing back the curtains. He turned the telly on, saw us running around with the cup and thought he'd died and gone to hell.

  Throughout our Turkish celebrations, my thoughts were on getting home and seeing the reaction in Liverpool. I recalled my anti-climactic feelings after our treble win, when the peculiarities of the fixture schedule denied what I'd call a traditional celebration. The scenes in town in 2001 were humbling, but I knew this would be on a far grander scale. Merseyside police warned us the city would be brought to a standstill by our homecoming. I expected around a hundred thousand people to be lining the streets as our open-top bus made its way from the airport.

  It's estimated over half a million turned out for us. It seemed every Liverpudlian on Merseyside wanted to catch a glimpse of the trophy. There were even some Evertonians along the route (they're not all as bitter as Seddo). As the bus crawled past each city landmark I'd receive another text message. 'Wait until u get 2 Anfield' one would say, forewarning us of more gridlock ahead. At Anfield, we were brought to a virtual standstill, swamped by fans. My phone went again. 'Town is unbelievable' it read.

  We were on the coach about four hours in total, and by the time we reached St George's Hall, our final stop in the city centre, I'd never seen such scenes. There's a famous photograph of Bill Shankly in 1974, lifting his arms to calm the thousands of fans below who'd turned out to celebrate our FA Cup win. 'Chairman Mao has never seen such a show of red power,' he said. This w
as even greater. It seemed people would put their lives in their hands to see us, climbing up lamp-posts or on to the roofs of multi-storey buildings. You found yourself frantically moving your head from one side of the bus to the next to make sure you didn't miss any of the banners or homemade European Cups people were waving.

  The most spine-tingling sight of all was the look on the faces of the fans. If there were half a million people there, every single one of them was wearing the broadest of smiles. You can't underestimate the feelgood factor such a win brings to a community. Those simple expressions of joy explain why football matters so much. Whatever troubles any of us had were put to one side to share this one intoxicatingly pleasurable experience. Nothing quite brings a group of people together like winning an important football match, and even though the Evertonians may disagree, it's the whole city that reaps the reward. Because of our efforts, the name of Liverpool was seen to represent something good, positive and noble.